


Postcard #3

by ZoeWarren



Series: Postcards in Paradise [3]
Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Gen, Postcards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeWarren/pseuds/ZoeWarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATED MAY 11: CHAPTER 3 ADDED<br/>Richard has his own struggles with this postcard communication.</p><p>Spoilers for season three and onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Richard

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the first two, this won't make much sense.

Richard warned the agents who spirited him out of Saint Marie he would be terrible undercover. He was a terrible actor, a terrible liar, and he didn't think well on his feet. He was bad with people, and didn't adapt well to new situations.

His new colleagues in MI6 granted all of that was true, but the information Sasha had shared with him put him in as much danger as it did her, so there was no other choice.

And so Richard found himself back in the cold, grey drizzle of London, but still not back in the old life he had missed so much. Croydon, his former colleagues, his parents, even the White Hart were forbidden to him. He lived in a corporate flat in a faceless suburb. He didn't even have his own name.

In one sense, the familiarity of his surroundings was liberating – it was still London, even if it wasn't Croydon. The constant tension from the unrelenting heat and humidity, from the unfamiliar food, and the unusual customs was gone. But gone with it were his colleagues, his friends, Camille, and the satisfaction of a job he was good at.

In the end – mostly, he thought, because they couldn't trust him out in the world on his own – the agents found a cubby of an office for him and granted him access to the files on Sasha's case. At least he could put his skills to use solving the puzzle that would eventually allow him back to his own life. It was the only way forward, and he threw himself into the work with a passion.

** **

In his spare time, Richard worried.

He worried that Camille hadn't received his postcards. He worried she hadn't understood his meaning, that she didn't even remember that one offhand comment he had agonized over for days afterward. He worried she hadn't been able to uncover his messages...

And he worried that she had.

He cursed himself for an egotistical fool. How arrogant to believe that Camille was wasting her energy grieving for him. From what he'd been able to learn, Humphrey Goodman was a friendly, sociable man. Camille was probably thrilled to have him for a colleague.

Except that Richard couldn't shake the guilt that knotted his stomach. Camille was so generous with her friendship and her affection, even toward a grumpy old git like him. He'd heard the ragged edge of the tears she tried to hide when she thought he might not come back from his visit to London. It wasn't fair to let her grieve over nothing. Especially not so soon after Aimee's death. She deserved better.

** **

Richard tried three times to open a post office box where Camille could send a reply. At the first two places, the clerks required identification, and Richard didn't feel safe giving either his real identity or his undercover one. He stammered a lie about having forgotten his wallet and hurried out the door.

He didn't even make it to the third place. Despite changing trains repeatedly and losing himself in the rush hour traffic of the underground for almost an hour, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He really was terrible at this undercover business.

Finally he decided he wouldn't let himself put Camille in further danger just to satisfy his anxiety. He abandoned the idea and tried to hope he hadn't created a disaster already. If the cards were intercepted, if someone suspected Camille knew more than she did... There wasn't anyone there to scoop her up and protect her the way they had him.

As the weeks passed, he felt guiltier for sending the cards than he did for letting her believe he was dead in the first place. He scanned the news out of the Caribbean, waiting to find the small sidebar that would tell him the body of an Honoré policewoman had washed up on a beach somewhere, foul play suspected.

No matter how many days passed without news, he couldn't seem to shake the sick dread lodged in his chest.

** **

And yet...

Richard couldn't stop himself from scouring the shops for postcards wherever he went. He knew he couldn't send them, but nor could he let go this one narrow thread of contact he still had with Camille. So far, he'd managed not to actually purchase any of them; so far he'd kept the temptation of another message at bay.

And then he found _that_ one.

The postcard was simple, the plain brown of parcel paper with a caravan of caravans in black silhouette across the width of it. And the words printed below, just as plain and just as simple, spoke all his longing in neat block capitals.

There was only a single copy of that card, whereas all the others stacked by the dozen. Richard couldn't help but feel it was meant just for him.

He bought it – paid in cash – despite his misgivings.

 _I won't post it_ , he thought. _I'll give it to her in person, if I see her again._ When _I see her again._ Proof he hadn't forgotten her, despite his silence.

He tucked the card in his breast pocket and felt a little better.


	2. Camille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on Saint Marie went on as it always did. Camille felt like she was waiting, she just didn’t know what for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter weaves in and around the events of episode 3x08. Some dialogue from that episode appears in the story. 
> 
> Spoilers for season 3 and season 4.

The station smelled like cabbage for days. Camille had cleaned up and emptied the garbage before she left that night, but the smell lingered. She pretended to be as mystified as everyone else.

She waited for one of the others to call her on her lies, for Dwayne or Fidel to notice the weight of her grief that was suddenly missing. She was sure the words 'Richard is alive' must be tattooed on her forehead, certain that the mysterious 'watchers' had only to look at her face to know Richard had blown his cover. But no one noticed. Nothing changed. Life on Saint Marie went on as it always did.

Camille felt like she was waiting, she just didn’t know what for.

** **

Months passed.

Camille checked her mailbox daily, but received no further mysterious cards.

At times, she thought there might in fact be someone watching her – she caught the occasional glimpse out of the corner of her eye, or felt a heavy gaze on her back – but she had no choice except to allow it to continue. The hole left behind by her grief began to fill with impatience and frustration. And she couldn't let that show, either. She was living undercover in her own life.

** **

And then one day Sally arrived.

Camille found herself crouched behind the counter in her mother's bar, spying on her boss and his ex-wife, certain that their exchange was important, but unable to say why. She hadn't intended to follow Humphrey to his rendez-vous, but once he left for the bar Camille was consumed with the need to know how the encounter turned out.

She could almost see her mother jumping to all the wrong conclusions as Camille pumped her for information about Sally. Humphrey was Camille's boss, her friend. Her responsibility. She didn't think about him as anything more than that. So why did she care about his date with his ex-wife?

Camille's heart sank when Humphrey pulled his hands away from Sally and fled the bar. She turned to find her mother watching her for a reaction, but Camille had no answers to give.

** **

It wasn't until the next morning that Camille understood.

She sat in the sand beside Humphrey outside the shack, because he needed her to. The care and feeding of Detective Inspectors was a part of her job. So she made small talk about the case until he turned to her with confusion written all over his face.

"Sally wants to give it another go," Humphrey said. "Said she made a terrible mistake."

Humphrey was clearly torn by the idea, but something clicked inside for Camille.

"And is that what you want?" she said.

"I don't know."

Sally wanted to come back. Camille turned the idea over in her mind. If Sally came back... if Sally came back... Camille tried to imagine it, and she felt as though a locked door had suddenly opened in front of her.

"She called me this morning," Humphrey continued, "and asked me to meet her for dinner. Tonight."

"That's good. Isn't it?"

If Sally came back, Humphrey wouldn't need Camille anymore. Camille would be free to leave the island if she wanted to.

She hadn't even realized how trapped she felt until the cage finally opened.

"I think she'll want an answer," Humphrey said.

"I'm sure she will."

"So what do I say?"

Camille kept her voice even, kept her face supportive as she turned back to Humphrey. "It depends on how you feel."

** **

Camille hadn't ever intended to stay on Saint Marie. Richard's over-zealous investigation blew her cover, and the commandant had trapped her just as surely as he had Richard.

Camille minded less, of course. Saint Marie was home, and she'd been on the move for so many years. It was nice to feel like she belonged for a while, to feel that she had roots and a community and a history. Too many years undercover made her feel paper thin some days. And working with Richard... well, working with Richard was many things, but boring wasn't one of them.

Losing Aimee and then Richard so close together was hard, though. For months, everywhere she looked, everywhere she went, she found nothing but memories and grief. She might have left, then, if it hadn't felt so much like running away.

And now there was Humphrey. She could no more abandon him than she could a little puppy. But if Sally came back... Camille began to imagine a different future. Just like when she was a teenager, she needed to stretch beyond the limits of this small island. It was time to get out into the field again, to pick up her life where it had been interrupted.

** **

Sally _didn't_ come back, in the end, but Camille found she didn't mind. She could see the bars of her cage now and knew the way to freedom.

After work that day, Humphrey wanted to celebrate the team's success at finding Emma Redding's murderer, and Camille was the first to agree. She felt like dancing.

** **

The third postcard arrived a few weeks later. Of course it did.

Camille had already begun to plot her escape, had set the smallest of wheels in motion. A phone call here, an email there. Sally hadn't stayed, so Camille needed someone to take care of Humphrey. And if she could find a replacement for herself first, getting the commissioner to let her go would be that much easier.

For those weeks of planning, she had been so very careful _not_ to think that Paris was much closer to London. She refused to make this about Richard. This was her choice. Her life. And the silence from London had gone on for so many months she had almost stopped expecting to hear from him again.

Until the third card arrived.

** **

She felt it before she saw it, the thick paper surface distinct beneath her fingertips as she reached into the mailbox. She didn't look at it until she got inside. She dropped her purse and her keys and sat down at the table before she finally fished it out from between the other envelopes.

The postcard was thick, but not glossy. Paper-bag brown with three cars towing three caravans in silhouette, nose-to-tail across the width of the card. Large letters beneath the caravans spelled out the traditional message, _WISH YOU WERE HERE_. And below that, in smaller print, _PLEASE BRING YOUR OWN FLASK OF TEA AND SANDWICHES. MAKE SURE YOU PACK COSY THERMAL UNDERWEAR SO THAT YOU ARE WARM AT ALL TIMES_.

So pedantic. So English. So _Richard_. Her fingers trailed across the surface of the card. So very Richard that for a moment she could feel him hovering in the room beside her.

She carried the postcard outside and sprayed it front and back with the red cabbage water, but no hidden message appeared. And Camille didn't really expect one. He had said what he had to say out in the open.

And she suspected she knew already what would come next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the postcards in this series actually exist, out there on the internet somewhere. The one from this story is my favourite, though. I realize it's cheating to provide the picture when I'm supposed to be able to do it in words, but even so, you can find the original here: http://www.gorgeousgifts.co.uk/custom/images/products/hires/wish-you-were-here-east-of-india-postcard.jpg


	3. What comes next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The number on Camille's screen was from Paris, not London, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't quite keep her hands from trembling as she answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter weaves in and around the events in episodes 4x03 and 4x04. Dialogue from both episodes appears in the story. Spoilers for seasons 3 and 4.
> 
> And, because I could not find an elegant way to incorporate the explanation into the story, here is the short answer to 'what the heck is the DGSE?" (courtesy of wikipedia): "The General Directorate for External Security (French: Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, DGSE) is France's external intelligence agency." Basically, France's equivalent of MI6.
> 
> (And in case anyone is wondering, the 'M.' in M. Brand is not an initial, it's the French short form of Monsieur. So she's calling him Mr. Brand. But in French.)

It was nearly a month before Camille's phone rang with a call from overseas. The number on her screen was from Paris, not London, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't quite keep her hands from trembling as she answered.

"Detective Sergeant Bordey?"

"Yes, speaking."

Camille didn't recognise the smooth French voice on the other end of the line.

"My name is Phillippe Brand and I'm an agent with the DGSE. A former colleague of yours recommended you to us, and your credentials are impressive."

"Thank you, sir." Camille slid out from behind her desk and took the phone out onto the verandah, suddenly unsure of what was going on. The DGSE?

"I'm particularly interested in your skills as an undercover operative and your experience working on a multi-cultural, multi-lingual team. And I'd like to talk to you about possibly joining a pan-European task force to combat large scale cybercrime."

Cybercrime? Camille very nearly pulled the phone away from her ear to stare at it. "Thank you very much for your interest, sir, but I should explain that I don't have any specialist skills in that area."

"Not much of a hacker, eh?" M. Brand chuckled. "No, no. We do have specialists on the team, but what we’re looking for here is an undercover investigator who can pursue leads in the real world. You would work as part of an international team which functions both online and off. Is this something that would be of interest to you?"

Camille's mind was reeling.

Richard wouldn't have sent a card like the one she received, not after so many months, not without a secret message, unless he had wheels in motion somewhere. That card was an invitation. She had been expecting a call with the offer of a transfer to London from the Met, or maybe SOCA. And she was half ready to turn it down. She was still trying to work out exactly how far she was willing to let Richard pull her strings.

But the DGSE? She had assumed Richard had been hauled away by some British system of witness protection. She hadn't realized there were agencies involved. She hadn't realized just how big a fire Richard had stepped into.

"Yes, sir, I'd be interested in learning more about the position."

"Excellent. We'll send an inspector with a packet of the information we are able to share," the man continued. "I'll be in touch again."

** **

Camille didn't really believe they would send Richard with the information, not after they had gone to so much trouble to whisk him away in secret. She couldn't quite stop herself from hoping, though, and she found herself gearing up for battle even as she dressed herself for dinner.

** **

"Camille! So good to see you again."

Camille turned to see a man crossing the bar towards her. It wasn't Richard, of course, but he did have a familiar face. Camille had trained with Charles in Paris, years ago, and they had worked together at first, until Camille transferred back to the Caribbean.

Charles took her hands and kissed her cheeks, and Camille smiled.

"Was it you who recommended me?" Camille wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"I may have put in a good word," he said.

** **

She and Charles caught up over dinner, and he sent her home with the packet and a promise to meet up again the following night.

At home, Camille sat at the table and flipped through the information Charles had brought her. There wasn't much. Just enough to give her an idea of the scale of the battle to be fought. Just enough to catch her interest.

She did find the one name she was looking for, though. Sasha Moore, Richard's old friend, the owner of an internet company who got mixed up in something she shouldn't have.

** **

On their second 'date,' Charles spoke about the project in more detail, and Camille began to get a sense of the day-to-day operations. She would be running multiple low-level infiltrations to begin with, gathering evidence and information. And when the team was ready to move to the next step, she would take on a longer-term undercover identity.

Camille was excited by the possibilities, by the variety and the challenge. And her ambition was piqued by the possibility of further work with the DGSE. She was being offered the chance to make a difference in the world, to prevent crimes, not just sweep up after them.

When M. Brand called again the next day, with questions that felt very much like an interview, Camille understood that this job was real, that the DGSE were serious. Whatever Richard had started, this was her chance to fly. M. Brand asked her what she thought of the information provided, asked for her analysis, asked what questions she had. Camille thrilled to the chance to show off her abilities, and ran with the pieces of the puzzle she'd been given.

The conversation ended well, and when she hung up, her brain was full to bursting with the details of it, with 'what ifs' that for once didn't hurt. And she absolutely had to share it with someone.

Still bubbling inside, she held Humphrey back after the others left the office.

"You're my superior officer. And a friend. And as a friend, there's something I need to tell you."

But Humphrey's eyes on her were disconcerting. She'd begun to suspect that Humphrey felt more for her than just friendship – she was painfully familiar with the signs – but there wasn't anything she could do about it. She hadn't ever admitted to the slow and awkward dance she and Richard had been engaged in – how could she? And what was there, really, to admit? Even she didn't know. And Humphrey was still rebounding from the sudden dissolution of his marriage. His attraction was almost to be expected. The best thing for everyone was to go on as though nothing had changed between them.

But the unspoken thickened the air as she circled around her news, suddenly nervous, and they stumbled through a few rounds of 'no, you first.' When Camille realized that Humphrey was working up to actually confessing his affection, she blurted her words out just to stop him.

"I've been offered a job in Paris."

She saw the shock twitch through the muscles in his face and immediately wished she hadn't ever started this. Trapped, she tried to rush through the rest. "One of the inspectors flew in a few days back and I had dinner with him a couple of times to discuss the offer. I'd be going back to my roots. Undercover work."

Every word she said only made it worse. And as she watched him try to rearrange his face into some configuration that didn't betray his devastation at the news, Camille understood that _actually_ leaving the island was going to be quite different from dreaming about leaving the island.

She'd been on the move for so many years, she'd grown skilled at leaving people and places behind. She didn't let herself get too attached. She got good at goodbyes by just not acknowledging them.

But Saint Marie was different. Saint Marie was home. And the look on Humphrey's face cut right to her heart.

She forced her enthusiasm up to eleven to counteract the threatening tears – his and hers. "They approached me. It's a bit of a shock, but it's a once in a lifetime opportunity. I haven't said yes yet. I need to think about it."

Really think about it. Think about leaving her mother again. And Dwayne. And Fidel and Juliet and little Rosie. She would miss Rosie's growing-up years. And Humphrey. Who was her friend. "Say you're pleased for me." She'd found Florence to take care of him, but if he kept staring at her like that, she'd never be able to walk away. "Please?"

"I'm delighted."

"Really?" She didn't believe him.

"Really, really, really delighted." He was trying. For her, he was trying. "You know what? We should celebrate. This is a champagne occasion. Champagne at your mother's bar."

Camille was so torn all she wanted to do was go home and cry. But if Humphrey could put a brave face on this, so could she.

"Okay. Well, I need to freshen up first, but I'll meet you at the bar. Thank you for being so understanding." Just minutes ago she'd been so excited. "I'll meet you there."

"See you there."

** **

Camille spent the next few days swinging from one extreme of emotion to the other. And Humphrey, poor Humphrey, couldn't stop picking at the wound. She knew he was torturing himself as much as he was her, but she still thought she might have to beat him senseless.

** **

"Honoré police station. ... Yes, this is Camille Bordey." Camille knew when she heard M. Brand's assistant on the other end of the line, rather than M. Brand himself, that something wasn't right. "Oh... yes, all right... Thank you for letting me know."

Camille had made the decision to take the job. She wasn't as certain as she had been. And she worried that too much of her motivation for the move came from the need to yell at Richard in person. And the need to prove to herself that she could still leave Saint Marie. She knew neither of those were good reasons, but her emotions were in too tangled a knot to be able to unpick and examine such individual threads.

And now, it seemed, none of that mattered anyway.

"Is everything okay?" Humphrey. Still picking.

"Yes." She brushed him off. Then shook her herself. That wasn't fair. "Well, it seems the job in Paris is no longer on the table."

"Oh. Did they say why?"

Why? Camille wished she knew. Had she been so wrong? Had the interview gone badly? Had she been so far wrong in her deductions? Or had something changed on the other end? Had Richard changed his plans, or changed his mind, or... Or what? Camille put all her effort into keeping her frustration out of her voice. "Just that they are looking for someone already living in Paris."

"Are you disappointed?"

"Yes." Camille hadn't realized how elaborate her castles in the sky had become until they all crashed to the ground. Disappointed wasn't even the word for it. She was furious – with Richard, with Charles, with M. Brand – for dangling this possibility in front of her and then yanking it away. No matter what path she settled on now, it would never feel right, it would never be enough. She would never get the opportunity, or the challenge, or the answers that she craved. But she couldn't say any of that to Humphrey. So she shrugged and dragged up half of a smile. "But if it's not meant to be... c'est la vie."

"Yes..." Humphrey didn't believe her either.

Camille turned away, back to her work. She should have known better than give in to the 'what ifs'.

** **

By the end of the day, Camille had made some choices. She had made the decision to leave Saint Marie twice already, so she was going to leave Saint Marie. She knew what she wanted now. She would fly to Paris, and if she couldn't manage to get a meeting with M. Brand in person, she would talk to Charles, to her other contacts, and see what work might be available. If they wanted someone who was already living in Paris, she could make that happen easily enough. Camille was done with being jerked around by other people.

"It was me that got them to withdraw their offer."

Except, apparently, she wasn't.

"What?"

"They needed me to agree to release you. I refused."

Camille had slammed into the doors of her cage without even realizing they were there. It had never occurred to her that she would need Humphrey's permission to leave. The commissioner, yes, but not Humphrey.

"Why?" She knew the answer, but she wanted to force him to say it.

"I didn't want to lose you. But I knew deep in my heart that you wanted to go. When you first told me about it, I saw it in your eyes. You were excited."

"And you still stopped me going." She should have just let him confess his feelings. She should have shut him down then and there. She knew the dangers of 'what ifs' and she should never have let him continue to harbour his.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I behaved selfishly. You see, you've become very important to me, Camille. Much more than you'd ever know."

Camille didn't want to have to quit her job, but maybe it was the only way. Maybe it was the only way to stop Humphrey, and the Commissioner, and Richard from deciding the direction of her life for her. Humphrey's little stunt had made her doubt herself, doubt her abilities, and that was unacceptable. She was going to...

"But if you care about someone, you have to let them be the person they are, not the person you want them to be, otherwise what's the point? So I called the Commissioner. And he called Paris. And, well, the point is... you're flying from Guadeloupe in the morning. The ferry leaves first thing."

Camille really thought she might strangle him. Half of her was furious at him for making decisions about her life _again_ , and the other half was still reeling at the thought that her dream might not be out of reach after all.

"You see, my father always told me, you can't help making a mistake, but if you try and make it right, people will forgive your stupidity."

She stared up at him. Angry. Elated. "I could kill you."

"Yes, well, if it helps, I could throw myself in the sea."

She considered the offer. Decided that, on the whole, she would rather be the one to pitch him in. "Don't tempt me."

** **

Saying goodbye was exactly as hard as she knew it would be. The mad rush to get packed and organised and onto the ferry in time actually helped. She was left with no time to dwell. And Saint Marie was home. She'd come back again, one day. And maman and Dwayne and Fidel and little Rosie wouldn't love her any less. Leaving Humphrey was harder. For all she was still annoyed with him, she didn't want to think this was the last time she'd ever see him. But he seemed to be making a life for himself on the island. Maybe he, too, would still be here when she got back.

She looked down at the small compass he'd given her – an apology, a promise that from now on he'd let her choose her own path – and she was glad he understood.

She watched the island, laughing and crying, until it dwindled to a point on the horizon. The worst part was behind her, and she was looking forward to everything that came next.


End file.
